


I Remember Touch

by FeoplePeel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Class Differences, Courtship, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Matchmaking, One Big Happy Family, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Leandra Amell was disowned for running away with a soldier below her station, she thought she had seen the back of Kirkwall. However, as the late Lord Amell lay on his death bed, he gave his daughter back her family name and her inheritance. After a crash course in Thedasian High Society, the Hawke family moves to Leandra's childhood home, in Kirkwall, where they find their station in life elevated quite suddenly.</p><p>Tongues are set to wagging by the audaciousness of the Hawke siblings, especially the elder who refuses to wear gloves and takes unchaperoned walks. On the second day of the season, a name appears on her card that stuns the room. Varric Tethras is a member of the Merchant's Guild and, as far as anyone can remember, has not put his name on any dance card, besides that of his previous fiance. What’s changed? And why Lady Hawke?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Remember Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rvd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvd/gifts).



> For a Regency AU wherein Lady Hawke of Lothering has recently risen in society. This is not EXACTLY Regency. More Thedas with a Regency-era twist? I've never written proper Regency, so I know I've shot myself in the foot with the etiquette, but thank you, coffeespoons, for the chance to try my hand, anyway! And for this awesome idea! I hope you enjoy what came out of my brain!
> 
> And thank you to wren for looking through this and being the best cheerleader!

“Stop fidgeting, Leandra.”

Leandra pursed her lips. “It’s Lady Hawke, remember?”

Malcolm sighed. “You told me to call you Leandra when I met you. I’m not going to stop because some bird-brained dandy thinks it makes me look worse. Though I’m sure I can’t drop much lower in their estimation..”

“I’m certain there’ll be someone there for you to speak to, Father.” Bethany said. She was always there with a kind word.

Malcolm dredged up a smile from somewhere. “A lot of soldiers at this party, you think?”

Carver scoffed. “None who did more than stand around or write letters.”

“What do you know about fighting, boy?” Their father chuckled, pressing a toe into Carver’s shin.

“Do not _kick_!” Leandra swatted Malcolm’s leg. He winced, looking slightly abashed.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry, Mum, er, Mother.”

“Perhaps you should have stayed at the manor.” Leandra looked out the window, worrying the seat beside her. Malcolm grasped her hand.

“And throw you to the jackals alone? I may not be able to fight anymore, but I’m no coward, either.”

Leandra smiled gently, her hands stilled, for the moment.

Gemma Hawke ignored her parents, along with her own discomfort. At twenty-five it had become an easy, necessary task.

Ser Malcolm Hawke _had been_ a soldier when he met Leandra. The meeting hadn’t stopped him being a soldier, but their decision to leave Kirkwall had stopped Leandra being an Amell, and kept her from a sizable inheritance. Lady Leandra Amell became _just_ Leandra Hawke that spring and the summer next, after the war, Gemma was born.

Now, here she was, the memory of Ferelden still fresh in her mind and looking toward her first season in Kirkwall.

Gemma knew why Mother was so insistent on the fancy dress, the parties, though it did little to ease her mind. She had even grown accustomed to the fineries of their new home over the last few months. With the Blight sweeping through Lothering, she wasn’t going to look a gift inheritance in the mouth, but she didn’t think she’d ever be _comfortable_ with such frippery.

A look at her brother, tugging his sleeves down and scowl firmly in place, confirmed that she was not alone in this. She snorted. Bethany was the only one of the three siblings who seemed remotely interested in the season, nearly bouncing in her seat, hands clasped tight around her fan.

Gemma reached over, patting her smaller, lace-covered hand. Of all the things in high society, Gemma hated _gloves_ the most. Mother insisted on them and Gemma barely felt _skin_ anymore. They were a damned nuisance.

“We’re here!”

Gemma had grown up hearing distant tales of Kirkwall and the Amells. It was hard to think that this had been her mother’s whole life once. That she had left, thinking it all behind her, and then....

“Gemma, look at the lights!” Bethany pointed out of the carriage window and Gemma peered around her sister’s shoulder.

Well, Kirkwall was beautiful, at least.

* * *

Gemma watched Bethany dance with an equally bored-looking man in the center of the room. Carver stood like a statue in the opposite corner, very obviously trying not to touch anything that looked expensive.

“Your family looks a bit out of place.”

Gemma turned, ready to snap in hot retort until her eyes landed on the woman who had spoken. “Aveline!”

“Lady Hawke,”

“Oh, tush.” Gemma felt her nose wrinkle. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Just Gemma, please.”

“I fear you’re the sort of friend who’s going to be causing me some amount of trouble in the near future.” Aveline laughed. It was a rich, pleasant laugh, Gemma thought. A tall man, close to Gemma in complexion stood behind Aveline, looking quite dazed.

“Lord Fenris,” Aveline addressed him and he snapped to attention, bowing his head a little. “Your Lordship, might I present The Honorable Gemma Hawke”

“Now you’re just making names up.” Gemma pursed her lips, but dipped into a curtsy, nonetheless.

“Messere is the granddaughter of the late Lord Amell. Her family crossed the Waking Sea from Ferelden, only a few months past.”

“Quite a voyage.”

“His Lordship has come to ask for a dance.” At this point, Aveline was near elbowing him in the ribs and his cheeks were tinged with pink.

“Would you care to dance?” Fenris asked, his voice almost a growl and unable or unwilling to meet her eyes.

“I’m afraid Mother has absconded with my dance card.” Gemma admitted, closing her fan with a snap. “She doesn’t quite trust my sister and myself to make our own matches yet.”

“Oh.” Fenris’ shoulders fell in relief.

“A shame.” Aveline replied archly. “I’ll just go find her, then.”

“I’ll be more than happy if she never does.” Gemma said out of the side of her mouth, when Aveline was too far to hear. Fenris’ mouth tried to move into a smile, but he seemed as uncomfortable as Carver and it became something lopsided. “Has my manner left you wrong footed already?”

“Not at all.” He let out a loud breath. “I’m just...I don’t often attend.”

“Attend…?” Gemma raised a brow

“Anything.” When it was clear he would have to say more, he continued. “I have recently acquired an inheritance myself. Ser Vallen thought we might have that in common, at least.”

“Ah.” Gemma tried not to laugh. It was good to know someone here was worse at this than she was. “Ser Vallen wasn’t wrong.”

“Hm?” Fenris raised a brow.

“My family is entirely out of place here.” She elaborated. “Mother convinced my father we could make a comfortable life for ourselves in Kirkwall and it is my sincerest belief that the only reason he agreed to it is the sickness sweeping the low country. Here and Orlais seemed to be the only places left untouched.”

“That’s not true. I hear Antiva had a wonderful grape crop this year.”

Gemma snorted. “To see myself in Antiva, now that is a laugh.”

“You miss Ferelden?” Fenris asked, his voice a little more earnest now.

“I do.” She said. “I miss our farm and the fresh crops, none of the imported goods. I can’t believe to think it now, but I even miss the Chantry.” She smiled. “It must sound trite but we were happy in Lothering, despite our status. Odd that Mother never felt the need to come back until her own parents passed. I suppose the land was a boon...though it may just say something about the late Amell's.”

Now, Fenris _did_ smirk. “Serah, do you speak ill of the dead?”

“Were it not for my grandfather's passing, I would never have found myself in such frippery.” She waved her fan with a sigh. “But then, I may also have never left Lothering, so he has my gratitude, on that account.”

“No, I can’t see that for you.” He shook his head, just slightly.

“Oh?” She laughed. “Serah, you hardly know me.”

Fenris lifted his shoulder, looking a little helpless as Aveline completed their small party once more. “Your dance card.” She handed her the slip of paper. “Filled, unfortunately.”

“Drat.” She grinned at Fenris. “Next time, perhaps.”

He pulled a face.

“You must keep that out of your mother’s hands, Messere Hawke.” Aveline tutted. “Your sister’s, too.”

“I’ll convince Bethany, perhaps.” Gemma waved, looking down the names on her card. _Ewan, Delphine, Anders, Hubert...hm._ “I’m sure these are all perfectly acceptable.” She turned her attention back to Fenris. “Serah, should you find yourself in want of a friend between these dreadful occasions, Aveline,” she coughed, “Apologies _Ser Vallen_ knows our address.”

 _My mother will eat you alive._ She added silently, though not unkindly. He looked as though he could use a bit of kindness.

* * *

If she was afraid she or Bethany would have to fight off anyone’s courtship, she need not have worried. The first dancer who approached her showed more interest in his feet than her person and the second, while a jovial woman, clearly had her sights set for a more youthful prize.

When the third, a blond man who seemed as uninterested in her as she was he, approached she bowed and they danced without speech. After, Gemma made what her mother considered polite conversation until broaching the topic of her father.

"I'm sorry," her partner blinked as though fighting off sleep, "you said he fought in the war?"

"I did, Serah. Ser Malcolm Hawke." She struggled to remember her father’s rank and realised it could easily work to her disadvantage. She let the sentence hang.

"I was in the 21st Battalion of the Grey Wardens." For the first time that night, her partner (Anders, she remembered, belatedly) looked...well, excited was a good word for it. Excited as one could be while trying to seem well-mannered. "Do you think he's seen much...oh, I'm sorry, that's not..."

"Fighting?"

"Ah, no.” He blushed a fetching shade. “I was actually going to ask if he'd seen many wounds. Medicine is my field of expertise."

"That's right. Mother said you worked with...poultices." She tapped her chin. "It's probably something you should speak to him about. I know he can set a broken leg to rights. And he has a _foul_ scar on his leg."

Anders was nearly vibrating at this point.

"He...should be in the main foyer, with Mother.” She suggested with what she hoped was an encouraging lilt. “Likely he'll not be too far from her."

Anders looked over his shoulder. "I shouldn't leave you, unchaperoned. It's not proper."

Gemma gave him a flat stare though, judging by the look on this face, it was less effective than she thought. She sighed, straightening her dress and giving him a winning smile. "I'm just going to meet my sister. It'll be no trouble, I swear it. There. You have my word, as a Lady!"

It was a testament to how much the man wanted to speak to her father that those words, in that order, coming out of her mouth was all it took.

 _You have my word, as a Lady._ Was that really the sort of power she held now? _Best not overthink it, Hawke._

"Well, Bethany was right. At least Father will have someone to talk to.” Gemma looked around herself and the steps towards the shrubbery. “I think I’ll _take the air_.” She said, to no one.

With that, Gemma descended the steps to the gardens.

* * *

Gemma let her feet carry her while her mind wandered. She didn’t plan to be gone so long, only to walk off the heat that seemed to pulse through her.

True, she had found none of her partners to be particularly engaging, but to touch and not be allowed _touch_? Is this how these people lived, all their days? It was _maddening_!

“No wonder mother ran.”

"My lady, are you quite well?"

She started at the sound of a voice so close to her. When she turned it was to face one of the house’s servants, quite a bit shorter than her (which was not a feat, as her legs were considerably long) though roughly her age, judging by the lines on his face.

“You startled me.” She said because she couldn’t think of anything else. She had not expected to meet anyone outside of the party, least of all a man.

“Pardon, I saw you head into the garden and thought you shouldn’t go alone.” His eyes sparkled. “I would not have approached, but you were still for some time."

_And then I spoke to myself as though I’d taken leave of my senses._

“I was walking.” She looked around herself. “I seem to have lost myself.”

“It would be proper of me to show you the way back.” She noticed he was staring at her hands. Sometime during her walk the heat became too burdensome, and she had finally shed her gloves. “Though it would not do for you to be seen unchaperoned.”

Gemma had heard this so many times that the phrase was beginning to lose meaning. Malcolm didn’t seem to care if Gemma adapted to their new way of living and her mother, most days, didn’t expect her to. Despite this, on the boat from Ferelden and the months following, she had received a somewhat rushed course in manners.

She had thought it would be a bit like playacting. She wouldn’t _really_ be held accountable by anyone but her family.

More the fool her.

She pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t a lady until a few months ago.”

“So you _are_ one of the Hawke sisters!” His mouth curved into a handsome smile. “You’re on everyone’s lips.”

“Hardly.” She laughed, helplessly, wondering if the slip was intentional. “No one will touch my waist, let alone my lips.”

He ran a tongue over his own lips at the mention and Gemma hesitated a moment before taking a step towards him.

“That could be considered an invitation.” She lowered her voice. “Or should I write it on a card?”

To her astonishment, he accepted the challenge, arching forward to kiss her and pinning her wrists to her sides. HIs hands slid gently up her arms and tensed before falling away. He seemed to not know where to touch her, or maybe where to touch her _first_ , but his mouth stayed firmly fixed to hers.

This was _not_ beginner's luck; the man was very skilled with his tongue. He pulled away, nipping at her bottom lip, her chin, her neck. She buried her nose in his honey-blonde hair and laughed herself breathless.

The stranger froze when they were interrupted by a familiar-sounding cough.

Gemma straightened her dress where the man’s hand had been slowly climbing up her thigh.

“Father.”

Her partner ducked his head, disappearing down the garden path with a muttered, _Messere_ and Gemma considered it one of the more graceful exits she had ever seen in the face of her father, a man who still looked, for the most part, soldier.

Malcolm did not watch him go.

“Gemma.” He crossed his arms, voice warning. “Your mother’s been looking for you.”

Gemma held out an elbow. “Nothing to fret over, I just got a bit lost gazing at the stars.”

Malcolm picked a leaf out of her hair, took her gently by the arm, and grunted.

* * *

“Gemma! Where are your gloves?”

“It’s a furnace in here, I took them off.”

“It’s _you_ we should have left at home.” Leandra looked a hair’s breadth away from tossing her hands into the air.

“I danced with everyone on my card!” Gemma waved her paper towards the mass of people behind her. “If they faint at a bit of exposed wrist, I worry for their first childbirth.”

”If you don’t care about your own prospects, think of your sister, at least.” Leandra pursed her lips. “I’m sure she doesn’t want to live with her brother forever!”

“He’d make for better company than some of these barbarians.” Bethany flipped her fan shut. “I kept my silly gloves on all night and one of the men who danced with me,” she lowered her voice, “touched my bottom.”

“He did _what_?” Gemma straightened, fists tightening at her sides.

“Don’t worry, sister.” Bethany grinned proudly. “My hand left its own mark.”

Gemma smiled tightly. It wasn’t as though Bethany couldn’t take care of herself, so why was her stomach a knot?

Leandra’s lips pressed together. “Where’s Carver? We’re leaving.”

They found Carver with Bethany’s previous dance partner. He had taken the _charming_ man outside...with some force.

“Carver, unhand him!” Leandra called from behind Malcolm’s arm.

Malcolm motioned his head towards the squabbling men. “Get your brother.” Gemma nodded.

Well, as long as she had _permission_ to be uncouth.

“Come on, brother.” Gemma pulled him off and he landed on his posterior with a loud thump. “His brain is in his bollocks, there’s no helping him.”

“They’ll be no helping him when I’m through.” Carver growled, holding his nose. By the look of things, the other had gotten in at least one good blow.

The host, Lord Orsino, stood by the door of his estate with several girls who must have been his own daughters. One, a tiny thing with a long nose and big, bright eyes, stepped away from the imposing man and bent to give Carver a small cloth.

“To stop the bleeding, Messere.”

Carver took it with a blush. “Thank you.”

“You should go home now, Ser Otto.” She stood, speaking in a shaky breath. “You were invited as a courtesy, to your brother, but if the sort of trouble you bring along continues, well.”

“He brought me out here, you daft woman!” The man, Otto, groaned from the ground.

“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out here.” And with a flip of her long, dark braid, returned to stand by Orsino.

“Come on, to the carriage now.” Malcolm’s hand landed on Gemma’s shoulder and she turned to follow him. “Leandra’s right, best to make a hasty retreat while we’ve still some good standing with the host.”

She fell behind to walk with her brother. “You know I hate to say it, but you can’t hit everyone who makes you angry.”

“He said we killed grandfather and stole our money.” Carver whispered. “He called Bethany terrible things. I will not repeat them.”

The knots in Gemma’s stomach unwound one after another as she realised what it was that had niggled at her, maybe for months. She had snuck off, nearly had a nice party in her own way, and no one was the wiser. She was gloveless, cared not for dancing, and rarely called people by their _proper_ title. All of this she did and no one, not even the host, batted an eyelash. Her dance card was full and would likely be so next time.

Bethany followed every rule, did everything right, and it _didn’t matter_. If anything, she had it worse, trying so hard only to fall so far.

Gemma slapped her brother on the back. “I only said you can’t hit _everyone_. Not _anyone_.” She watched his lips curve up into a small smile. “Let’s not tell Mother what he said. Bethany and she still seem to have some hope for these strange games they play.”

“I had no intention to.” Carver took a breath. “What should I do?”

“Let me speak to Father. You’ve got your own inheritance and I don’t care a wit about marriage. We don’t have to follow their rules.” Carver pulled the cloth away from his face and stared at it with a distant expression. “It wasn’t all bad. Did you get her name while I wasn’t paying attention? Orsino’s pretty daughter?” She ribbed him.

Carver blushed. “The Maker cursed me with a sister like you.”

* * *

Though Mother gave Carver the worst tongue lashing in any of the siblings living memory, he remained firm in his decision not to speak. After a few days, Leandra expressed a certain admiration for what she considered Carver’s quick wit and forward thinking in scaring off any other boarish suitors for Bethany.

Carver had always been Mother’s favorite.

True to her own word, Gemma found her father in their backyard, kneeling by a patch of dirt under one of the larger trees. She watched him dig for a little while before he leaned back and gave her _a look_.

“All right, let it out.”

“It’s all ridiculous, you know that?”

“Of course.” He stood with a grunt. “But your mother’s enjoying herself. And it won’t hurt us to play along for a while. Your brother and sister might meet someone nice. Leandra will take down those blighted drapes, eventually.”

“What’s the difference between burgundy and maroon anyway? It’s all red!”

“You’ll be glad when that’s the only big decision you’re making.” He laughed from his belly and Gemma smiled. He leaned against the wall next to her, scratching his neck. “I _am_ enjoying you wind your Mother up, so the gloves are fine.” He cut a glance at her. “But I can’t say I’ll be happy to find you enjoying the fruits of the garden again.”

“You mean that isn’t how you stole Mother away?”

“Do you _really_ want to know about me and your mother and garden liaisons?” Gemma pulled a face. “I thought so. And, for the record, I was a perfect gentleman. Still, gentleman isn’t baron or duke or whatever other title her father would have liked so...that’s that.”

Gemma listened intently. Her father never spoke much about his life, beyond the occasional war story, but of what he had told her of his time in Kirkwall, he had never seemed to bear the Amells any ill will. Looking at the society her mother had left behind, she can’t say she blamed him.

“I must admit, having a nice, relaxing life with my family isn’t the worst existence, especially in my old age.” He coughed into his hand. “And that Anders fellow is nice. A bit of a talker. _Insists_ that I consult on some paper he’s writing about...nostalgia and battle shock. But, ehm, nice.” He raised a brow and she pursed her lips. “No? Well, I never tried to play matchmaker for you, I’m not going to start now.”

“Obliged.” She bent to pat the dirt where Malcolm had been planting some seed.

“Gemma!” The urgency in her mother’s voice startled Gemma to standing. “ _A man_ is here to speak with you! Go clean yourself!”

“A man, what man?” She calmed, wiping dirt on her breeches. Leandra looked near-scandalized. “Mother, I’m going to clean myself anyway.”

“Right, right.” Leandra swallowed hard, collecting herself. Her smile, when it reappeared, could rival suns. “Ser Vallen’s friend, Lord Fenris? He's in the parlor, right now!”

“He just...came? Without any notice?" Malcolm scratched his head.

"I invited him." Gemma explained. "He's just come into money. It was nice to find one equally adrift in the art of propriety."

"Invited _him_?" Malcolm looked to Leandra. "Isn’t that...inappropriate?”

“Oh, who cares!” Leandra smacked his shoulder. “She’s twenty-five, Malcolm! How many more chances will she have?"

Gemma covered her mouth to hide a laugh, vaguely insulted but, for the most part, amused.

"Go make tea!” Her mother pointed inside.

 _Let her have her way._ Malcolm mouthed, trudging inside and kicking the dirt from his boots.

Leandra looked between them, suspiciously, and Gemma finally laughed.

* * *

“Forgive me, I thought your offer was kind and,”

“You’ve no need to apologize.”

“Your mother is,” Fenris coughed, “enthusiastic.”

“Had she her way we would be married before the day was done.”

“ _Married_?”

“Apologies, have you _not_ come to court me?” Gemma teased.

“Oh, dear Maker, is that the way of things?” Fenris held a hand to his forehead. “I thought we might play cards, make our own jests about the Lords and Ladies of Hightown…”

“I’ve a extra fan for you to titter behind, if you’d like?” At this, Fenris looked even more distressed, as though he had caused some sort of offense. “Don’t fret so.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“How do you...pretend so well?” He asked her, suddenly.

“I’ve had a noble mother my whole life. I’m sure some of it was accidental. And I’m a skilled liar, when the occasion calls, ask any card shark in Lothering.” She thought of the sickness and laughed, bitterly. “Those still living.” She turned her face to his. “How do you? You’re no uncultured lowborn.”

“You haven’t heard?” Fenris’ smile was all sharp, bright teeth. “I am an educated slave.”

“My favorite kind.” Hawke hadn’t heard but, in the Free Marches, it wasn’t an unfamiliar tale. “They’re the ones who cause the most trouble.”

“I’m afraid I’ll bore you on that front.” He laughed. Gemma nodded, urging him to continue. “Danarius wasn’t _terrible_ , as masters go, but the country was, well...he had no love for Tevinter as he aged. He brought my sister and I here, nearly a decade ago and when he realised he would die, heirless, passed his estate to me.”

“A slave inheriting from a master.” Hawke sat on the ground beside a tree. “Kirkwall is a funny little place. I like it more and more. And your sister?”

“Varania is in Antiva, under the tutelage of the Montilyet family.” Fenris laughed. “With any luck she and her kin will be able to run the estates better than I ever did.”

“If you don’t want to marry what do you want to do?”

“Funny,” his chuckle was dry and humourless, “no one’s ever asked.”

* * *

There were balls nearly every week, to Gemma's disdain and Leandra's delight, so it wasn't long before she found herself back at Orsino's manor. She entrusted her card to her mother, once more, and immediately went in search of Fenris.

When she found him he seemed trapped between two women and very out of his depth. He brightened at the sight of her, his entire face begging for help.

"I believe your name is on my card, Lord Fenris." She called, in a convincing titter. He looked at the women apologetically before strolling towards her.

She slapped his chest with her fan. "Why do you come to these if you're not going to socialize? Just stay abed. Read a book."

"Argue the point with Ser Aveline." Gemma winced. "Then nor shall I."

Ser Aveline Vallen, Captain of the City Guard of Kirkwall had met the Hawkes upon their arrival, helping them settle in and get to know the lay of the land. Gemma was becoming increasingly aware this was something she had done for many in the city and _why_ she had such an esteemed reputation as the Captain of the Guard.

Still, as kind as she could be, she was a force when angry.

"Dance with Bethany." She suggested. "It's safe and I can trust you to be a perfect gentleman."

Fenris was already following her instructions. "Please don't place such high standards on me, Serah."

Gemma laughed into her hand.

* * *

“Messere Gemma,” Anders greeted.

“Serah Anders.” Gemma smiled. They had taken to dropping the harsher formalities when he visited her father at the house. She was glad the habit stuck even in such a stuffy setting.

“I saw your mother had your card again.” He said. “I placed my name for The Mercury.”

She glanced around a man’s shoulder to see a group of six, Bethany and Fenris among them, step around one another on the floor.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed your opportunity.”

“Drat.” Anders looked very pleased. “I fought through elbows for naught? Whatever shall we do with ourselves, now?”

“Maker forbid we _speak_ with one another.” Gemma chuckled.

“Forgive me for prying, but I’m afraid you won’t be aware unless I tell you.” He was fidgeting. “There is a peculiar name on your dance card.”

“Peculiar in what way?”

“It is one scarcely seen.” He replied, looking more bewildered than she had ever seen. “Have you ever heard of the Tethras family?”

“I’ve a vague recollection.” It was near impossible to miss, in Hightown, with names in large print above many shops. She had not thought much of it. “Are they an old family?”

“No.” He shook his head. “The eldest, Bartrand, had a good mind and took ownership of half of the businesses in Kirkwall before he met the Maker, eight years past.”

“I imagine it is not his name on my card.” She raised a brow. “Though, if it is, I now understand the source of such peculiarity.”

“It is the younger, and sole heir, Varric Tethras on your card, Messere.”

“Why should this interest me? He has wealth?” She lifted her arm in a shrug. “I have wealth, to a point.”

It was true. Carver was not the _sole inheritor_ of their family. It was only...he and Bethany were so much _worse_ than she at taking care of themselves, and younger, too. It seemed only fair that they get a larger sum.

Anders looked around them before lowering his voice to a whisper. “As I said, it is not his wealth, but the rarity at which the name is placed.”

She took a great breath. “Speak _plainly_ , Serah. I have only a few more hours here.”

“Messere Tethras has not put his name on any dance card, for as long as I can recall.” He raised his brows. “Some say at least ten years.”

“Maker, how old is the man?”

“Some thirty and two.” Anders replied, dismissively.

Gemma clasped her hands in front of her. “Is he a recluse?”

“Not at all.” Anders waved his hands. “I’ve seen him attend most of these events and he always looks more entertained than I. Though it’s rumored he more often frequents Lowtown.”

 _The rich have such eccentricities._ She chuckled to herself and made a note to ask her mother what she knew of this man. Aloud, she said. “I’ll admit, my interest is piqued.”

She didn’t have time to consider the question, _Why me?_ before Bethany nearly ran to her, her face a thundercloud. Fenris trailed behind, seeming more than a little lost and, for a moment, Gemma was certain he had done something improper (though likely on accident). She looked between the two, waiting for one of them to speak.

“Sister!” Bethany struck first. “I placed my dance card down for only this past song and look!” Gemma took the proffered paper. Along every line, _Isabela_ had been penned, each time in a different scrawl. “She’s filled the space for every dance!”

“Oh, but that’s not _allowed_!” Gemma said and Bethany snatched the card back at her teasing. “Honestly, Bethany, just strike her name out.”

“No.” Bethany straightened, worrying the edge of her paper. “I’ll meet this rogue, face-to-face.”

“The Hawkes have all sorts of admirers tonight.” Anders said in a teasing lilt.

“Stop.” Gemma tried very hard not to laugh. “Just Isabela, hm? And you’re sure you’ve not already met her?”

“I’ve been to town nearly every day this week! I’ve not heard of anyone by that name!”

“May I?” Fenris held out a hand and Bethany showed him her card. “If I had to guess, it would be Admiral Isabela of Rivain. She’s a merchant, and fairly well known.”

“Rivain?” Bethany’s cheeks turned a darker shade of red than the sort of dancing they did called for. “An _Admiral_?”

“I wouldn’t put too much stock in her title.” Anders went on to explain. “Rivain has a Queen but, beyond that, it isn’t much for hierarchy. When one of theirs travels they allow themselves whatever title they wish based upon how much wealth they have.”

“Sounds like a Free Marcher.” Fenris commented.

“And who’s going to tell someone with a big boat and hundreds of shiny sovereigns that she’s not an Admiral?” Gemma elbowed him.

“A boat?” Bethany fanned herself delicately, mouth shaped in a little ‘o’ of surprise. Gemma rolled her eyes. She had seen the sort of books Bethany read. This _Isabela_ was going to be someone to watch.

Fenris took a deep breath through his nose, holding out his arm. “Come, my lady, let’s find your mother.”

Gemma took his elbow. “Yes, I wouldn’t want any surprises.” Then she thought of what Anders had told her and added. “More so than there already are.”

* * *

Isabela _was_ a rogue, in fact, and striking enough. Bethany suddenly lost her tongue and all former complaints seemed to fly into the breeze as they met on the floor.

Gemma watched her sister stumble over herself and fall into Isabela’s arms for what had to be the third time. At this point Gemma was _sure_ she was doing it on purpose.

“Shame she didn’t write her name on my card.”

“I do not believe you know how to play at _demure_ , my friend.” Fenris snorted. “Your sister, at least, makes attempt, and does not draw the ire of _the crones_.”

Hawke looked at the row of old women, needles in hand and watching with narrowed eye for any sign of misconduct. She locked eyes with one and, as if pulled by some mysterious force, felt she and Fenris’ joined hands pulled further up her back, despite discomfort.

To Gemma’s credit, she had stayed a firm path that night, focused on keeping her hands to herself and away from tempting garden walks, just as her father had instructed. She considered how dancing with someone as rakish as Isabela would have affected her and, very promptly _stopped_ thinking about it.

She _had_ kept an eye out for a particular shade of blonde among the help, but considered that just _looking_ wouldn’t do any harm.

“Perhaps you’re right.” She coughed. Fenris raised a brow, as though reading her thoughts.

She had spoken to her mother when she went to fetch her card and, while Leandra was far more enthusiastic about her daughter dancing with _a duke_ than Gemma or Anders had been, she had only whispers and tall tales to relay, as well. The question rose to the surface of Gemma’s mind. Why _her_? It was only after she had spoken that she realised she had asked it aloud.

“You may be new here, but the Amells are an old family and to be connected to its estate would boost many in Kirkwall.” Fenris sighed. “Likely he wants to tie his name to yours.”

“That’s it?” She scrunched her nose. “How dull. Why not dance with Bethany?”

He looked at Bethany and Isabela. “He may have made an _attempt_.”

Gemma laughed heartily.

“I have heard… _one_ rumour.” He admitted, after a moment.

“That seems to be all there is of the man.” She despaired.

“He had a fiancé.” Fenris said and did not continue.

“Well, go on!”

“I can’t say more than that. I doubt anyone can. It’s said she left the city.” At this he lowered his voice. “Or perhaps, she never got the chance.”

Her eyes widened at the implication.

“It’s only a story.” Fenris assured her. “I have heard one other, that the _brother_ did not approve and had her shipped away to Tevinter.”

“Her fate does not sound much improved…”

“Perhaps he was so hideous she ran across the sea herself.” He shrugged.

“Serah, do you wish such a fate on me?”

Fenris laughed.

The dance came to an end and they bowed, still laughing. Fenris set off to find Aveline and Gemma went her own way. As she left the dance floor she heard the familiar whispering of gossip behind hands, and recognized her own name among the noise. She pressed on, using Anders as a goalpost, and ignored it as best she could.

They had barely greeted one another before Anders motioned behind her. “He’s there, if you’d like to speak with him.”

“Who?” She turned only slightly, not knowing _what_ would cause a scene here.

Anders rolled his eyes and said, almost disinterestedly, “The Most Honourable Varric Tethras.”

Gemma did turn now and realised that, though she may have been hearing her name thrown about like a dirty dishrag, the people speaking in low murmurs were not interestested in _her_ at all.

Varric Tethras was far from hideous.

“Messere,” Anders said, loud enough to get her attention, “are you all right? You’ve gone pale as a spectre.”

Gemma swallowed, hard. No, Varric Tethras was not hideous and she could list many attractive qualities to his name, immediately. His hair was a _particularly_ beautiful shade of blonde (and smelled like rum, she remembered), his eyes danced, nearly sparkled (and, now, she knew it was _mischief_ , not the moonlight that gave them such a glow), and his lips curved slightly up to one side (Gemma knew _those_ intimately).

“Introductions won’t be necessary, Serah.” She said, when she found her voice. “I know that man well enough.”

* * *

“Lady Hawke.”

“Your Grace.”

That was all they said to one another before the music began.

In the end Gemma had not moved from Anders’ side and Varric had not crossed the length of the floor to meet her. She watched him, dressed in an attractive, red suit ( _Crimson_ , the voice of her mother piped up), and saw he interacted gaily and drew one’s full attention in the conversation. Still, her legs would not carry her to listen and she had stood in near silence until it was time to dance.

She barely paid attention to the dancing, now. Her mind was in a frenzy. Was this a game? Something the wealthy did for sport? Dress up, take women in the garden and then...

But it was _she_ who had gone down those steps, uninvited. She had not sought him out, by any means, but once she had seen him, she had been sure she could use her charm to _have_ him...and she nearly had.

“You look troubled.” Varric grinned, looking quite proud of himself. “Let me know if I can help in anyway. Some water. Walk in the garden, perhaps.”

She took a steadying breath. He was using her wrong footedness against her.

 _Well,_ she thought _he knows only my name. He does not know **me** , at all._

“Forgive me. You are dressed...more handsomely than last we met.” She turned, weaving around one of the other dancers until she found herself next to him again. “Why a servant?”

“People pay less attention to you.” He said. “Quite a few things you can get away with when people aren’t looking.’

She felt her face heat. “A trick I’ll have to keep in mind.”

“More difficult for a resplendent woman such as yourself, I think.”

“I suppose one would have to have an air of a commoner to go unnoticed.”

“Oh,” he laughed, “I should have guessed a hawk’s talons were sharp!”

“ _You’ve_ a devilish tongue, yourself, Your Grace.” She slanted him a look.

Whatever upper ground he seemed to have looked ready to crumble beneath him as he blushed, and lost his footing a little.

 _I’ve seen under that collar._ She thought, eyeing his cravat. It was a great pity, what those starched collars hid from the world.

He bowed and she mimicked in sloppy haste. So wrapped up in her own thoughts had she been, she had not realised the dance had ended.

“I see Isabela’s found someone to enjoy herself with tonight.” Varric said, and led her off the floor.

“My sister.” She replied, her tone warning.

“Then I shall refrain from comment, except to say what a _lovely_ pair they make.”

“My friend tells me you rarely dance during the season.” She said, when they reached the edges of the floor. “How do you keep yourself busy?”

“I should say I’m a businessman, as it is the truth,” he said with no small amount of boredom, “but I’ve a passion for storytelling.”

“Writing?”

“That surprises you?”

“I suppose it shouldn’t.” She said through the side of her mouth. “And what is it you write?”

“Anything that strikes my fancy. Mysteries, adventure, romance. A ball has excellent fodder for the latter.”

“And yet you do not dance.” Gemma tilted her head.

“I don’t like to dance because it promises something I have no wish to provide. Courtship, marriage. Two things you seemed thoroughly unconcerned with when last we met.”

She did not know how to navigate the turns of this conversation. They were past the point of propriety yet, at times, he spoke to her with the good manners afforded any lady and allowed her to return the favor, despite his sharp wit. More and more she felt this was a game to the man.

“First Lord Fenris, and now I find you.” She sighed with put-upon drama. “Anders, too, seems more interested in Father’s war stories than a lover’s touch. Are there any in Kirkwall who desire a settled life?”

"Then Serah Fenris is not courting you, as so many seem to whisper?"

Gemma laughed. "I don't think he'd know how. Or I, for that matter."

"Perhaps if courting began in the gardens rather than ballrooms?"

She grinned down at him. “Your Grace, I’m surprised. You mock me openly, now.”

He scoffed. “Surely it is your own taste you mock. _Air of a commoner_ , indeed.”

She blushed. "Is that why you wrote your name on my card? For a story?"

"Maker no.” He waved her off. "I just wanted to see the look on your face." His expression morphed to curiosity and he motioned past her. “Though your family has one of the more interesting stories I've come across in recent memory. Your brother seems taken with Lord Orsino’s attendant."

“Excuse me?” She turned to see Carver, hands wrapped tight around a cloth, washed clean of blood, to a familiar looking woman, her plait wrapped in a bun on her head. Both faces were red as she plucked it from his hands and Hawke recognized her as the girl she previously thought to be one of Orsino’s daughters.

“Romance blossoms.” Varric waved an arm at the scene, sounding too puckish for her liking.

“ _Attendant_ , you said?”

“Serah Merrill, if I remember correctly. A little dozy, but sweet.”

Gemma was already moving towards the pair, not knowing nor caring if Varric was behind her.

She had a feeling he was. In the short time they had spoken, he seemed to enjoy courting interest. _This_ looked interesting.

“I've no card.” Were the first words Gemma could make out from Merrill’s mouth. She closed her eyes and fought a wince. “I...I'm a maidservant, Messere.”

She had been too slow.

Gemma imagined people pointing, laughing. Behind her eyes, she saw her brother, drowning

When she opened them, Carver and Merrill still stared at one another, blushing fiercely.

Gemma coughed, placing a hand on her brother’s back. “Can a maid not dance? Are we not Free Marchers? Can we not freely march? Or...dance as the case may be.”

Varric had followed her, and stood by Merrill now. "Serah, if you do not wish a dance you must speak."

"My brother is dense but kind." Gemma assured her. "He will not press."

"Sister!" Carver's face, if possible, glowed brighter.

"I would _love_ to," Merrill rushed to speak. Her eyes moved across the room and Gemma followed her gaze to see Orsino, speaking with a group of people. "It is not my choice."

"Lord Orsino," Varric called, far too boisterous for the crowd they were gathered in. Orsino looked up, his shock giving way to resignation as he caught sight of the speaker. "Have you any objections to your girl, here, dancing?"

"None, Messere." Orsino's smile was wan, but the sentiment was sincere and he sent a nod to Merrill before ignoring them completely.

“Thank you,” Gemma shot Varric a grateful smile as Carver led Merrill onto the floor.

"Always willing to lend a hand to those young and full of hope. May I call on you?” He asked, suddenly, and color rose high in her cheeks.

"It was my understanding that you were not interested in courtship and marriage." She teased. “Did I leave such an impression?”

“You’ve mistaken my intent.” He chuckled and Gemma raised a brow. “You seem a focus for the absurd. I can’t imagine life will get any less interesting around you.”

Gemma considered being insulted before recognizing the truth behind his words.

“Please, come by the estate any time.”

* * *

“Messere?”

Gemma breathed hard through her nose. “Orana, you’ve lived here longer than any of us. Please call me Gemma, or some variation.”

“Sorry, Lady...Gemma.” Orana blushed.

The girl was attendant to the late Lord Amell and had been with him when he passed. Having no where else to go, she’d stayed in the house until the Hawkes arrived, nearly begging them for a job.

Her grandfather hadn’t even thought to look after her, and she’d probably done more for him than anyone. If Gemma knew her mother, and she liked to think she did, Orana would be well taken care of.

“You had something you wanted to tell me?” Gemma pressed.

“Right!” Orana jumped. “Ah...the Most Honourable…” she looked at her hands, as though they would tell her what to say next.

“It’s all right, I’m quite sure I only know one Most Honourable, though I question the lauds.” Gemma stepped past Orana and out of her room.

Orana shrieked her name before she had reached the stairs.

Gemma started, looking around her feet for a spider, perhaps a mouse. “What? What is it?”

“You can’t see a _duke_ , dressed in that!”

Gemma examined herself. With Mother chaperoning Bethany by the docks and Father visiting Anders’ clinic, at last, she had dressed down in her only outfit from home. It was a beige, cotton dress, frayed at the bottom with muddied stains so much a part of it, her eyes passed over them upon looking. She did consider changing, for a moment, then remembered herself.

“Orana, Messere Tethras has made it clear that he has not come to see a lady.”

* * *

If Varric found her wardrobe distasteful, he made no mention of it. He was dressed down, himself, and his cravat was missing entirely (Gemma sent a silent thank you into the Void).

She offered to show Varric the gardens, for the jest he would make of it if nothing else, but the man showed little fondness for the outdoors. They settled in the dining room, and Gemma helped Orana serve tea and these small, delicious cookies she had only seen in the Amell cupboards.

Varric looked at the cookies suspiciously, but tried one, anyway. "Did you leave many friends in Lothering?"

The question surprised her. Ferelden was not an exotic place, but twice now she had been asked about her time there.

"No one of note." She thought about this.

"Hard to imagine you not attracting attention."

Gemma paused, cookie halfway to her mouth. “I attract attention because I am novel, here. In Lothering, I was simply a farmhand, helping my father.”

“I don’t believe anything about you is simple, Lady Hawke.”

This had been a half-truth, Gemma admitted to herself. She had been educated just well enough to understand how witless most of the people in Lothering were, and delighted more in the tales of travellers. It was how she had become so skilled at cards and claiming said travellers’ money; passing one’s trick to the next. Soon she found herself at an age past prospect and with no friends to leave behind.

But she had many stories to hold a writer's mind captive.

“Believe what you will.” She set the treat back down, sipping from her cup instead. "I _did_ help my father and didn’t have time for friends beyond a certain age. I imagine I could have made more if I had the inclination." She set her cup down. "And what of your friends, here?"

"I'm personable, though I don't get out as often as I'd like. I prefer the company in Lowtown to Orsino's parties." Hawke smiled to hear one of Anders’ suspicions confirmed. "Like you, there is no one I speak to, day to day. I'm afraid wealth affords more connections than friends."

“I’ve made several friends since coming here. I’d hoped to count you among them, one day.” She crossed her ankles. "Does it have to be one way or the other?"

“Bartrand, ah that was my brother, stern fellow,” he paused to explain. “He was very careful with who he trusted and always tried to press me to be the same. There are friends, and there are people who want your money, Varric.” He pitched his voice to a deeper register. “I suppose the warning stuck with me a bit, after he died.”

“Apologies for your loss.” Gemma nodded and Varric mirrored the action. “I may overstep but, I don’t believe you would act as you do if you truly thought as he did.”

“I...suppose I wouldn’t.” He scratched his nose. She had noticed it to be a habit of his. “I did have a friend." He said, eyes downcast.

"Your fiancé?" She asked and he turned a surprised gaze to her. "If it was supposed to be a secret, it's one poorly kept."

"Not a secret.” Varric raised a brow. “Certainly not something mentioned in my presence. What have you heard?"

"A great many things.” Gemma replied in a flippant tone. “She broke your heart when she left with a sailor. She was shipped off in a crate to Nevarra. She was murdered, and forgive me if I don’t go into details as I’ve heard several versions of that particular tale.”

“What can one do?” He shrugged.

“Whatever the case, you swore an oath never to dance again."

Varric sighed, eyes raised to the ceiling. "The stories grow every time I hear them."

"Are you angry or proud?"

"Bewildered.” He laughed. “You must be curious.”

“I couldn’t care less.” Gemma lied through her teeth.

His lips curved wickedly before he settled back into a more relaxed position. “It was political. Bianca was a dear friend, through my childhood. We were engaged, my father approved by merit of being dead. Her father...did not.”

"Ah, damn those unfortunately alive fathers!"

"Indeed." He chuckled. “It’s not entirely his fault. Our families had something of a history, you see? No one remembers why we hate one another, but Bartrand was an _ass_ and it seemed of the utmost importance that we continued the tradition. A marriage might seem like we were giving ground and, well, Maker forbid.”

“An ass, perhaps, but only a brother. What could he have done?”

“Disinherited me. At the time, the thought of being penniless and without title was enough to frighten the both of us away.” He shrugged. “What can I say? We were young.”

She was going to point out that similar had been done to her mother, but did not think it wise. The man clearly knew his own failings without having to be needled.

Instead she asked, "What happened to her?"

"She was married to a gentleman of good standing in Orlais three seasons ago." He rested his chin on a hand. “Unfortunately for the good people of Kirkwall, and my books, there’s not potential scandal to be found. He hasn’t the imagination, I’m afraid.”

"He sounds nothing like you.”

"But _exactly_ the sort her father wanted her to marry." He took a breath. “I speak without thought. The man may be boring, but he does treat her well."

"The two of you still speak? Is that allowed?” Her mind tried to parse through the etiquette she had learned on the subject of courting. On this particular topic, she drew a blank.

"My lady, you will find that one thing wealth can afford you is the ability to get away with almost anything."

This, at least, Gemma understood.

“Lady Gemma,” Orana said, over her shoulder (and Gemma supposed this was an improvement over Messere at least). “Your mother is home. Will His Grace be staying for dinner?”

“No, no.” Varric waved a hand and Gemma rose from her chair as he did. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Leandra rushed in, looking slightly harried.

“You _must_ stay.” She said and Gemma noted that her tone was more frightening than genial. “We’re having goose.”

Varric clapped his hands and smiled wide. “Goose? Why, Serah Hawke, how did you know my favorite meal?”

“In truth, I didn’t, Your Grace.” Leandra blushed. “In my experience, any gentleman would not find themselves... _down in the mouth_ at the sight of a good bird on the table.”

“I see where Lady Hawke gets her sparkling wit!” He laughed. “Let’s take a _gander_ at it, shall we?”

“She does not need encouragement from you, Messere Tethras!” Gemma groaned. The two ignored her and vanished into the kitchen, presumably, to look at a goose of all things.

Gemma had met so many lonely people in Kirkwall. They seemed drawn to the estate, through one Hawke or another.

She wondered what kind of companion she had made in the friendless Varric Tethras.

* * *

The Admirable ‘Admiral’ Isabela invited Bethany and Gemma out to the docks the following Saturday. Gemma was satisfied to find she would not be solely chaperone as, for whatever reason, Varric would be joining them.

“Apparently there is some history of business between the two.” Bethany explained, her arm linked through Gemma’s.

“That is no surprise.”

“Admiral Isabela said that she had avoided honest business in Kirkwall until Messere Tethras took over his brother’s estates.”

Gemma took no pleasure in speaking ill of the dead, but more and more was she glad to hear of Bartrand Tethras’ passing. From what she knew of Isabela, she was jovial and got along well with most everyone. If even the light-hearted captain of the Siren’s Call could not afford his business, Gemma couldn’t imagine giving him the time of day.

“Does she like it when you call her that? The Admiral?” Gemma teased. “Or is it a personal preference?”

Bethany blushed. “Be kind! She is close enough to hear, now!”

When the others in their party came into view, it was apparent that Isabela had said something to make Varric laugh. The silhouette they cast looked, to Gemma, like a painting with Varric as the focal point. The line of his throat, the way his shoulders shook with unrestrained delight; her heart raced. She stared for a moment, masking her attraction as polite interest in the conversation.

“I hope we haven’t made you wait too long.” Bethany spoke and broke the stupor Gemma found herself in.

“Lady Bethany!” Isabela clapped, delighted. “And Lady Hawke, hello again. Never concern yourself over someone else’s time. If I could not keep entertained, I would find myself very bored at sea.”

“That’s right!” Bethany rushed forward, arm looped through Isabela’s quicker than Gemma’s eye could catch. “You promised to show me your ship!”

“I did.” Isabela laughed. “You seemed so taken with the idea, how could I refuse?”

Varric chuckled and, to her surprise, offered his own arm. Gemma ducked her head and tucked a hand into his elbow.

“I’d love to go to sea.” Bethany sighed, longingly. “It sounds very exciting, doesn’t it, sister?”

“Yes, very.” Gemma smiled, tightly. _A ship. How novel._ From the corner of her mouth she whispered to Varric. “Were we not just on one of the hulking beasts? I think lust has dulled my sister’s wits.”

“I’ll stay on the shore if it’s all the same to you.” Varric harrumphed and Gemma gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze.

“You never did well with travel.” Isabela winked and began leading them south, down the docks.

As Bethany and Isabela continued chatting amicably in front of them, a woman that Gemma didn’t recognize waved to her, calling her by name.

Gemma lifted the hand not resting on Varric’s arm, waving back and feeling a little baffled.

“That is the third person I can’t recall to wave to me, today. Have I fallen? Am I missing time?”

“You walk through town on the arm of a Duke, sister.” Bethany called over her shoulder. “And not one, but two, handsome gentlemen have come to call on you, besides!”

Gemma did not think it necessary to point out that none were courting her and that Anders might attempt to marry her father, given half the chance.

“Many of the girls in Kirkwall have followed your example and stopped wearing gloves, despite the lateness of the season.” Bethany waved her own, gloveless hand in the air, as proof.

“Seems as though you're something of a trendsetter.” Varric raised an eyebrow, sounding impressed.

“Young Kirkwallers will always buck a tradition if they've someone confident to point the way.” Isabela added.

"I'm just glad to be rid of the damned things." Gemma rolled her eyes.

“Admiral,” Bethany ignored her, tipping forward to look up at Isabela’s face. “What do you plan to do after the season?”

Isabela considered this. “Head back to Rivain, I imagine. I'll need to make a few stops.”

“Oh.” Bethany leaned back, looking somewhat distressed. “Will you write?”

“What?” Isabela turned her head slightly. “Certainly. If I’ve the time. The season is a bit of fun, but work can be quite hectic.”

“I understand, of course.”

Gemma glanced between Isabela and Bethany, her expression thoughtful.

_Hm._

* * *

“You're a writer.”

“So you paid attention to that bit.”

Varric and Gemma were at a table of The Hanged Man, a bar in Lowtown. It had taken little convincing to get her here. Gemma missed home fiercely, or at least to go a day without being watched.

So he would call on her and they would drink, dressing down enough to not draw attention. Apparently, Varric's was a regular face and the patrons had formed some back and forth with the man. She'd give him credit that he was good at acting poor, though she still questioned his reasoning. He wasn’t making friends with the farce, so what had he to gain? A good story?

It mattered little, now.

“We need to help my sister.”

“The Admiral has a job.” Varric said, after setting his tankard down, and it was a credit to their short friendship that he knew exactly what she meant. “She can’t help that.”

“Does Isabela dislike her company?”

“I feel like this is being turned on me somehow.” He narrowed his eyes.

“It’s a simple question. Answer it.”

“No.” He answered, slowly.

“All right, that’s all I need to know.” Gemma held up her hands. “Let them work out the details themselves. First we have to get them together.”

Varric shook his head. “This is bad business, Gemma.”

_Gemma._

Gemma clenched her hands tightly together at the sound of her name in his low voice.

“Hawke.” He coughed, red high on his cheeks. “ _Lady_ Hawke.”

“What is business in the face of those young and full of hope?” She threw his words back to him, only to watch him fight a smile. “Now write.”

* * *

Once he began writing, Varric found himself very taken with the idea of secret liaisons. He would have the two meet alone, after dark, and found it all very scandalous. Gemma imagined it must be to a Duke. To one used to sneaking out and away from a full house, if only to get any privacy of her own, secret meetings by the age of twenty had become a somewhat blase affair.

Of course...it wasn’t really secret.

And, she thought from her hiding place above the alley and beside Varric, they wouldn’t _really_ be alone.

“Apologies,” Isabela shook her head, puzzled, “I wrote you no letter.” She examined the paper in her hand with a low growl.

“Isabela?” Bethany’s eyebrows knitted together.

“It’s...nothing.” The Admiral ducked her head. “I’m assuming you didn’t write this, either?”

“I’m sure I _would_ have written similar.” Bethany reached out, tentatively touching Isabela’s hand. “Ah! That is, if the letter was complimentary.”

Isabela stared at their joined hands, a small smile on her face. “It was.”

 _I remember touch._ Gemma barely thought about it before reaching out and grabbing Varric’s hand, threading her fingers through his. He squeezed lightly and she knew she had not overstepped. _We're starved for it, I think. Maker, we're starving._

Below them, Bethany finally broke their stalemate.

“I’m forward, but I don’t know how to be anything else. When you wrote your name on my card, I thought that you,”

Isabela interrupted her with a kiss and Gemma looked away, giving the two a bit of privacy.

“What do you think?” Gemma whispered. “Good enough for your novels?”

“Certainly nothing you'd see at a ball.”

“Nor should a sister.” Gemma scrunched her nose. “Let's go.”

* * *

Bethany floated around the house in a daze, smiling more than usual and asked every question twice before answering.

Gemma was happy for her.

A gasp from their mother drew the family’s attention, and even Bethany blinked at the woman. She held the familiar shape of a party invitation in her hand. Gemma knew that look. She knew that gasp. Whatever was going to come out of Leandra's mouth, she wasn't going to like it.

“Yes, dear?” Malcolm continued buttering his bread when he realised there was no immediate worry to be dealt with.

"The Prince of Starkhaven will be attending Lord Orsino’s next party!" Her mother passed her the invitation.

“Does the man do nothing but host balls?” Carver said, under his breath.

“What reason have you to complain?” Gemma scoffed. “You simply stand in a corner, looking witless as ever. I have to wear these terrible underthings that-”

Malcolm coughed.

“Anyway, you’ll get to see Serah Merrill.” Bethany teased and Carver at least waited until no one was looking to stick out his tongue at both of them

Gemma read through the invitation. Well a prince _was_ interesting. Maybe Varric would have someone to question about the modern monarchy of the Free Marches.

"Lord Orsino said the prince is looking very forward to meeting you, Gemma."

Gemma choked on her drink. "Me?" She skimmed the paper again and yes, there it was in black and white. He had mentioned her, by title and name. "But I haven't _done_ anything!"

"For once it's worked to your advantage." Carver snorted and Gemma feigned a kick.

"There must be a mistake." She shook her head, folding the paper. "Someone misheard a name or perhaps he meant Bethany.”

“Why would he have meant me?” Bethany said, her mouth half-stuffed with bread. She swallowed before speaking again. “I’ve done nothing either.”

“He’s a prince, girls.” Malcolm spoke again, surprising Leandra to silence. “He only wants to meet the eldest daughter of the Amell family line.”

“Well, if that’s all he’s looking for, I was bound to disappoint from the start.” Gemma reached forward for a piece of bread. “I’m a Hawke.”

* * *

"Prince Sebastian's coming?”

Varric held up a hand and Corff, the bartender and a man whom Gemma now held in high esteem for telling jokes only slightly worse than her mother’s, set two drinks in front of them.

"You know him?" She pulled one of the tankards towards her.

"By reputation.” Varric said. “He's a sparkling glass of water in the cesspit of the Free Marches."

Gemma grinned. "If that's the case, perhaps I'll enjoy more than one dance."

“Careful not to let his cleanliness rub off on you. I rather like you dirty.” Varric continued drinking as Gemma choked on her own swill. “And how do our young lovers fare?”

Gemma was amazed at the rapidity with which Varric could turn a conversation. The man had a talent.

Gemma lowered her voice. “Bethany has been asked to travel with Admiral Isabela.”

“Splendid!” Varric’s smile was genuine. “Why have there been no happy announcements?”

“There won’t be any until the end of the season. They’re being quite silly about the whole thing.” Gemma set her tankard down. “Mother fears a scandal and apparently this Prince claims he wishes to see me, so she’s being extra...particular.”

“You?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” She crossed her arms. “Though I’ll admit I’m of a similar mind. Perhaps he heard I was the first to catch the Duke of Kirkwall’s eye after some odd years.”

“Congratulations, my lady.” He said, as though delivering his condolences. “It appears as though I’ve won you prospects.”

“As long as this one avoids the gardens, I should be safe.” She rested a cheek on her hand and was pleased to see he could not look at her in the eyes for a moment. “Will you be joining us?”

“You know me,” he smiled. “I never miss an opportunity for a good laugh.”

* * *

Hosting for a prince was a much more elaborate affair, Gemma noticed, staring at Orsino’s floors. It was freshly polished and shined to a point that, had she bent, she was sure she could see her own reflection. The draperies, too, had been dusted and pulled back with a beautiful chord she had never noticed before.

Everything was annoyingly clean.

The attendees had gone out of their way, as well, to look nice. Though it appeared that most of the girls had chosen to leave their gloves at home. Gemma looked at her sister to see Bethany had worn hers.

“I don’t mind them.” Bethany said, having noticed the attention to her hands. “I think they look terribly attractive. Besides,” she added, in a lowered tone, “I may not have the chance to dress so fancy on a ship.”

“Will you be dancing tonight, Bethany?” Carver teased over her shoulder.

“If Admiral Isabela asks me.” Bethany replied in a steady voice. Still, she had to bite her lips to keep from smiling.

“You’ve a long journey ahead after the season.” Gemma reached out to push a piece of hair behind her sister’s ear. “She may not be able to attend tonight.”

“Then I imagine I will find no one I wish to dance with.” Bethany straightened and Carver chuckled, relenting for the moment. Bethany, on the other hand, was nearly smirking when she asked: “And will _you_ be dancing tonight, brother?”

Gemma smiled, relaxed. The light teasing was familiar between the twins, and reserved only for one another.

“I couldn’t.” Carver looked caught. “With all of the fuss, Serah Merrill, she must be busy.”

Both women laughed. “I did not call her by name but I’m glad to hear she still weighs on your mind!” Bethany covered her mouth with a hand.

“You knew she did or otherwise would not have spoken!” Carver crossed his arms. “Bah, I hate these silly games.”

“It’s good you’ve caught the eye of a serving girl, then.” Gemma grinned, unrepentantly.

“Good indeed.” Carver motioned with his head. “I don’t know how I’d feel to be in your dress.”

“Drafty, I expect.” Gemma tilted her head.

“I’ve been coy long enough. What did you think of Prince Sebastian?” Bethany asked, in earnest, taking her by the elbow.

Gemma took a breath. “Well…”

From what Gemma had witnessed, Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven was honest, kind, and devastatingly charming. And, against all right and proper thinking, _had_ come to Kirkwall almost exclusively to see her.

"I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed, Your Grace."

"Dont mind her!” Leandra patted her arm too tight. “She’s nervous.”

"I'm not." Gemma gently prised her mother off.

"It's all right." Sebastian assured Leandra before turning to Gemma. "And I am already charmed by you and your family, it would seem."

Gemma wondered if, on the list of her observations about the prince, she should set addled wits at the top.

Still, she had danced with him, and he had been good enough on his feet.

“He was...good.” She settled on, and Bethany seemed pleased by the answer. “Very princely.”

“He’s speaking to Messere Tethras, now.” Bethany smiled, lifting her hand in a wave. “Should we say hello?”

Gemma looked across the very polished floors to see Varric speaking with Sebastian, a tightness on his face she didn't often witness.

"I'm not interested in the conversations of dukes and princes." Gemma turned her back on the sight.

"That makes one of us, then." Bethany dropped her arm with a huff. "Your Grace!" She called, winding her way across the floor.

Gemma cast a lazy glance at her brother, still sulking to her left. "You're not interested, either, then?”

“Hm?” Carver snapped to attention. “Oh, yes. I mean, no.”

Gemma looked beyond Varric and Sebastian to the shining silver of Orsino’s serving tray and, attached to it, Merrill.

“You know,” she said, nonchalant, “no lady is too busy for a how do you do.”

Carver rubbed his hands together, face still set in a firm scowl as he put his first foot forward.

“ _Do_ pretend to be happy, Carver.” Gemma rubbed her brow. “She'll think you don’t like her.”

He half-turned to look at her, obviously ready to protest but, at the last second, chose to smile instead, and walked forward towards the trays.

“Hopeless,” she muttered.

“If you’re talking about the prince, I’ll agree with you.” Varric appeared at the elbow Bethany had been hanging from, moments before. “You’ll remind me to thank your sister for rescuing me from his conversational clutches.”

“I’ve met the man.” Gemma looked at him, unimpressed. “He’s not as bad as you say.”

Varric was too busy looking at the prince to notice. Sebastian seemed to be explaining a painting to Bethany and Gemma could see her eyes glossing over, even from here.

_Interested, my foot._

"Nothing seems to phase him.” Varric finally engaged her. “He refuses to listen to dirty stories, he didn’t understand my best clean joke. He reads,” and for this Varric lowered his voice as though speaking of sinful things, “ _Chantry sermons_. For fun! Won’t touch anything by Brother Genitivi. Considers it blasphemous.”

“Tell me you, of all people, did not discuss religion with the prince.”

Varric crossed his arms. “Not religion, my lady, _good_ literature.”

“Well, you would know.” Gemma said pointedly. "He’s a bit sweet on me, I think."

"A bit? You’re all he would let me talk about." Varric rolled his eyes.

She laughed. “That’s why you’re really upset. He’s censored the great speaker!”

"May I have a dance later, or is the prince's signature as big as his self-importance?"

"I think you may be confusing his sense of self with your own reflection." She tried not to grin at the sight of his obvious crossness.

"Is that your way of conceding that I'm handsome?" He asked in a roguish lilt.

"You know you're handsome. You don't need my concession to inflate your ego."

She didn't know why she said it. There would be no garden liaison, no opportunity for touch. She had lost that; a friendship had grown in its place.

"I would love a dance." She carried on breezily. "It's not your visage, but your company I despair. If anyone must suffer your arrogance, it ought to be me."

“Be gentle, my lady!” He held a hand to his chest. “I’ve not worn my gauntlet this night.”

At the close of the night, Prince Sebastian Vael asked if he could call on her. Gemma ignored the fall in her stomach, the sparkle in Varric's eye (seen even before she knew what he would be to her), and said yes.

* * *

Gemma came downstairs the next morning to find Anders at their table for the morning meal.

Bethany stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms wide. “Gemma, you’re indecent!”

Gemma looked down at her nightgown and sighed. “It's only Anders.”

She moved around Bethany’s arm and continued to the table. At this point, the sight of the man there was more common than Carver.

“It’s fine.” Anders stuffed a piece of toast in mouth. “I have to leave, in any case. Thank you for the meal, Messeres.”

“You come by anytime, Serah.” Leandra patted his hand. “It's a shame that boy wouldn't court one of you.” She held a hand to her face once he was out the door. “I worry about him. He’s a bit like Malcolm at that age. Wouldn’t eat without someone to remind him.”

“He’s an adult, Mother.”

“She might be right, Gemma.” Bethany giggled. “Look, he’s forgot his notes.”

“Again?” Gemma sighed noisily. “I'll return them, after I’ve dressed. I'm going into town anyway.”

“I'll go with you!” Carver’s head popped round the corner of the kitchen door, cheeks red. “I mean...to chaperone.” He ducked back into the kitchen slowly.

“He’s been so peculiar, lately.” Leandra shook her head.

Gemma grinned. Likely her brother would scarper off to meet his beau, the first chance he got.

That was fine too. She could use the time alone.

* * *

True to her guess, Carver ran off with Merrill at the edge of town and Gemma watched them go with a small wave.

Anders’ clinic was a homey little shop that sold herbs in the front, and a space just large enough to separate the sick from the recovering around the back. Of course, none of this could be seen from the outside, where it looked like the worst of Lowtown, old and dilapidated.

Malcolm told her that Anders had a doctor’s mind, and not a spit of business sense. Varric had seconded her father’s assessment, adding that, in his estimation, Anders had spent far more money on the sick and the poor than he knew how to manage.

It was a kind sentiment, but would not last him long with so little in returns.

The shop was still closed when Gemma arrived and she pounded on the door a few times, for good measure. She slunk around to the side door and peered in, but saw no one she felt comfortable calling out to. She was reluctant to leave the notes where anyone could look at or damage. So, she did something she hadn’t found opportunity to do in some time.

Gemma picked the lock.

She still carried the set in her left boot, and she’d gotten so rusty in her skill that it took seven tries and a good minute squatting in front of the front door, before the lock gave a resounding ‘click’ of success. She cracked her neck before standing.

“I’m sorry to intrude, but no one was answering and I’ve some notes for Anders,”

Anders, who _had_ been inside the front of the shop, stood quickly, banging his elbow on the counter as he rushed to move behind it.

It was obvious he had been crying.

“As I said,” Gemma started again, a little reluctantly, and placed the papers on the counter, “I came to return your notes.”

“Thank you, Messere Gemma.” He smiled. “Curse the Maker for knobbly elbows, hm? Is there anything else you need?”

She should go.

“Ah,” she hesitated, eyes scanning the shelves behind his head. “Some...witherstalk?”

Anders eyes widened to a comical size. He lowered his voice, placing a hand over hers. “My lady. Has the prince made...unwanted advances on your person?”

“What, _no_! Anders, it’s...for a friend.” She lied quickly.

“Oh, that’s good.” He sighed. Gemma watched him pull down one of the glass jars from the shelf, humming under his breath.

 _I shouldn’t ask._ She thought. _I should just leave. Stay out of it, Hawke._

Her mouth said: “I’d like to know why you attend the season, Serah.”

Anders paused, intent on watching his own hands move his notes from the counter to make room for the witherstalk. “That’s very personal.”

“You’ve become quite personable with our family, these last months, I’d say.” Gemma rested her elbows on the counter. “Forgive my boldness, but you seem...uninterested in a different way than I’m accustomed to.”

Anders pressed his lips together and, after a tense moment, fished under the counter to pull out a book. Stuffed between two pages was a picture of Anders and a man, presumably painted some years ago, as they looked to be teenagers.

“He’s handsome.” She handed it back

“My friend, Karl.” He shook his head. “Lover, in truth. He is in Halamshiral, for treatment...a disease I could not put a finger on myself. And this clinic brings in little, as you probably know.”

“I have heard you give your money to those who need it.” She inclined her head.

“Perhaps, but it’s not enough.” Anders laughed, bitterly. “The dances, the balls.” He gulped, looking cornered. “We need a sponsorship.”

“You would trick someone? To marry for money?” Gemma straightened.

“I would be honest!” Anders shot her a wounded look. “I wish only to live as I please with who I love.”

"Were I in love, I would not give another the hope to try." She said, ruefully.

Anders’ face remained stricken. Perhaps this was a conversation he and his lover had had before, she thought. Perhaps this was his first thought on the matter, too lost in his concerns to think so far ahead. She did not need to know the answer.

This was a problem, easily solved.

“We’ll pay for it. Whatever you need to bring in some money to this...place.” She said with a sigh. Anders blinked. “Father adores you, bad as he is at showing it. He wouldn't work with you if he didn't believe in what you were doing.”

When Anders looked at her, she was afraid he might cry again. "I can’t, _we_ can’t,"

She silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Tell Father what you need. Be honest."

* * *

Sebastian was the sort of man who was always fifteen minutes early, Gemma decided.

The _dependable_ sort. It may not be dependably _interesting_ , but her first assessment had not been incorrect; he was kind.

When he called on her, they walked the same path Fenris and she had, the first time he had visited the Amell estate.

Hard to believe she had been here for nearly a season...

They didn’t talk about much, beyond their recent journeys and the unseasonable state of the weather. It had rained the night before and Sebastian laid his coat over a puddle for her. Gemma blushed.

It was...nice.

* * *

“Surely he didn't!” Varric laughed.

Gemma blushed now, for a different reason. “Some men know how to be a gentleman.”

“I am a gentleman, Serah.” He said, eyebrow raised in challenge, “One must be a lady to reveal those truer depths.”

Gemma felt the words like a barb. Perhaps it was Bethany’s own recent happiness or the contrasting ways the prince and the _duke_ treated her. Whatever the cause, the tease wounded her more than it should and she felt herself straighten in response.

“Luckily there are those who would be proper, regardless of how ladylike I act.”

“I was only teasing. I didn't mean,” Varric’s face fell as he realised he had misstepped somewhere. “I'm sorry. I like that you're unladylike! Uncouth.”

She balled her hands into fists at his laughter. She knew all of this. She _liked_ that she could be herself around him. It was fresh air from drowning.

So why did it still feel like she was being insulted?

"I would hate to see anyone...take away the things that make you, you. That’s all I meant.” Varric coughed, scratching his nose. "That was...poorly phrased."

"It was phrased exactly how I needed to hear it." She stood, recognizing the beginnings of an argument when it stirred in her chest. "You find the poor interesting. Funny things to write about in your stories."

“ _No._ ”

“The quirks of my character that you seem to hold so _dear_ won’t disappear by taking any man’s hand. They were bred in poverty and they can’t be turned on and off because I dress up and play act as a lady.” She stabbed a finger towards him. “And just because _you_ dress up and play act poor, doesn’t mean you stop being rich! The insides are the same.”

“I know that!” Varric shot up from his seat, more desperate than angry. “But he doesn’t,” he sucked in a breath at the sight of Gemma’s eyebrows, drawn together, “they don’t know...you.”

"I'm not Bianca." She said with an evenness that surprised her.

"I didn't say that.” Varric’s face was pinched.

“No,” she said. “You would not betroth yourself to someone nearly so unladylike and uncouth, I imagine."

Gemma took a steadying breath. She was still angry.

Angrier, than anything, that she cared for him.

“Excuse me.” She left before he could stop her.

* * *

“And this...Hanged Man is where you take drinks?” Sebastian stared at the sign with trepidation.

“It is.” Gemma laughed. “I won’t think less of you if you disapprove of the smell, Your Grace.”

“No, no, I wanted to know more about you.” His smile was wan, but it was there. She did notice they moved past the bar with a rather quicker step. “And now I do.”

“A bit, yes.” She conceded.

The two had spent most of the week together and Gemma felt as a towel wrung dry. Like Varric, the prince did not speak with ill intent. But where Varric’s curiosity led to discussion, with Sebastian she found herself more often answering questions as though he’d discovered the first animal of its kind who could speak.

It left her more exhausted than the walking itself.

Since their slight falling out, she had not spoken to Varric, nor he to her. Bodahn, one of Varric’s men, had shown up with an acceptably regretful letter, apologizing for their discord and any hurt feelings between them.

Gemma had read the letter several times and, while it should have helped, she found it brought her no comfort.

She missed him awfully.

But, she reasoned, grip tightening on Sebastian’s arm as they moved through Kirkwall, this was nice too.

Sebastian was kind. He cared.

“You like farming.” Sebastian counted off on his fingers, working through a mental checklist. “You enjoy riding horses.”

“Those were...indeed two things I did when I lived in Lothering.” She smiled at him. Farming was work. She couldn’t say if she _liked_ it so much as it was something she had done. Horses helped you get from point A to point B. Gemma had seen the way women rode horses in Kirkwall. If the prince thought she would be packing her skirts up, sidesaddle, he had another think coming.

“I would like to bring you to Starkhaven, Lady Hawke.” Sebastian turned, taking her hands, quite suddenly.

“To Starkhaven?” She repeated, dumbly.

“Only to see the city for yourself and enjoy its many charms.” She could see the beads of sweat gathered above his lip. “I...must admit now, it is my _intention_ to keep you there, eventually.”

“ _Keep_ me?”

“No! Not keep!” He blushed. “To wed! You would have your own stables! A farm, if you’d like! I’m sorry, I blather on when I’m nervous.” He dropped her hands with a chuckle that was, indeed, nervous.

 _Were I in love,_ she recalled her own words to Anders, _I would not give another the hope to try._

She thought of Varric. Who didn’t love her at all.

“I will...consider it.”

* * *

Gemma decided to stop at Fenris' manor despite, or perhaps because of, the late hour. She was loathe to speak to her mother before she slept.

Fenris took one look at her pathetic demeanor and ushered her inside without a question.

The first words she managed were: "I am absolutely smitten with him."

Fenris stopped fetching the dishes to look over his shoulder at Gemma, where she now sat in the parlor. “I’ll admit the man’s dashing but surely the prince hasn’t left such an impression on you?”

She shook her head a fraction, hands tight in her lap. “Messere Tethras.”

"Oh, Maker." He closed the cabinet entirely and moved a stack of books to reveal a bottle of wine.

“Prince Sebastian made his intentions known.” She watched him pour two glasses with a steady hand. “I’ve told him I’ll consider it.”

“You've made this hard on yourself.”

"Have I?" Gemma covered her mouth and felt a sob break from her chest like a loosed arrow. She squeezed her eyes tight, and tears streaked down her cheeks. Fenris lay a hand in the center of her back and she fell upon her knees with a heavy breath.

"I never thought I'd miss my sister but here you are, reminding me of her."

It only took a matter of moments for Gemma to collect herself, taking a handkerchief from Fenris and looking away to wipe at her swollen eyes.

"I'm a complete fool.” She sniffed. “What am I to do?"

"First, dry yourself. Tomorrow, tell the prince you cannot accept his proposal."

Her laugh sounded hollow, even to her hearing. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Of course I do.” Fenris pointed to his nose and she patted the mess away from her own. “I’m not the one who must do it.”

"I've been an absent friend of late.” Gemma straightened, blinking away the rest of her tears. “What of your own troubles? How have you been doing?"

Fenris accepted the change of subject gratefully, directing her to a table covered in maps. “I've decided to travel. Once Varania gets back I'll take the first ship down here and then journey by cart…”

* * *

Her father was the only one awake when Gemma arrived home.

“Your mother was worried.” Was all Malcolm said before heading up the stairs.

“You weren’t?”

“You’re a grown woman, Gemma. You can look after yourself.”

“I don’t feel grown.” She bit her lip.

Malcolm sighed, and leaned against the bannister of the first landing. “That Sebastian’s a good man. A bit,” he wiggled his fingers, “decorated. Rings and what have you.”

“He wants me to go to Starkhaven.”

“Yes, I was told this morning.” He scratched his beard. “Said he had to ask me first.”

“You _do_ understand he wants me to marry him, yes?” Gemma said, delicately.

Her father stared down at her flatly. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m not a complete ass.”

“He said I could have my own stables. My own _farm_ to grow whatever I want on.” Gemma laughed breathlessly.

“Maker, won’t hear that offer from many.” He laughed with her.

“No, I suspect I won’t.” She moved to the bottom of the steps. “And I’d be near you, and the new friends I’ve made.”

She didn’t think it was necessary to add this was a convenient way to escape _inconvenient_ feelings for one of those friends.

“What do your new friends have to say about this?” He raised a brow. “Encouraging, all of them?”

Gemma looked away. “I really have thought about what you said. A settled life; taken care of. For when I’m older.”

“Bollocks to that.” He said in a tone that demanded attention. When she looked back, his arms were crossed. “You're twenty-five, not dead.”

Gemma climbed the few steps it took to meet him on the landing.

“If you don't love the man, do him a favor and _don’t_ marry him.” Malcolm raised her chin with a hand. “I don’t know that he could handle you.”

Gemma hugged him tightly, round the middle. “Thank you.”

* * *

Gemma talked to her mother at breakfast and Leandra didn’t have much to add to the matter. She seemed confused, mostly, at Gemma’s distress. Gemma was many things but distressed was rarely one of them.

Malcolm went with her to see Sebastian and, while outwardly she despaired the need for a constant companion, a small part of her was glad for the company on this particular trip.

“I’ve considered your offer, Prince Sebastian and I'm afraid I won’t be joining you on your trip back to Starkhaven.”

Gemma had stayed awake for some time thinking of how to say what needed to be said. In the end, she had settled on being as honest with the prince as he had been with her from the start.

“If it’s not too bold, may I ask why?”

“I don’t think it is.” She smiled. “But first, Your Grace, I’m going to say a word and I want you to tell me the first word that pops into your head. All right?” He nodded slowly. “Cursing?”

“Unnecessary.”

“Drinking?”

“Sinful when in excess.”

“Card games?”

“Degenerate.”

She bit her lips to hide a smile. He had spoken so seriously she thought he might wrap her knuckles. “Those are all things I _enjoy_ , Your Grace.”

“Truly?” Sebastian’s expression was one of shock but, to his credit, he sounded fascinated. “How...peculiar.”

Gemma tried very hard not to roll her eyes.

“You see, there's someone else. Someone I...care for who found none of those things peculiar at all. In fact he found them charming.” She said. “I thought that was a bad thing but, it turns out, I quite like it. Charming.”

Sebastian took a deep breath, nodded, and smiled.

“We may not be well matched, after all.” He said. “Still, I'm glad to have met you, Lady Hawke. It was...interesting! Fun!”

“I’m glad.” She laughed.

The prince gave a small bow to Malcolm, who always seemed confused by such acts, before turning on his heel and walking in the opposite direction, seemingly none the worse for wear.

Gemma took her father’s arm. “I could not have planned that to go any easier, I imagine.”

“Someone you care for?”

She blushed. “It seemed the easiest thing to say, as not to hurt him.”

“Of course.” Malcolm nodded and they walked in silence for some time. “That Messere Tethras hasn’t been by, recently.”

Gemma stiffened, her smile tight. “Am I so easy a mark?”

“I was only making an observation.” He shrugged. “By the look on your face last night, it didn’t seem like your friends were too happy with the thought of you leaving, even so close as Starkhaven.”

Gemma narrowed her gaze at her father. He claimed not to care what she did, to know nothing about her life, one way or the other. But Malcolm Hawke was _shrewd_.

“For your information, Messere Tethras was not informed of any potential plans.” She said.

“Word travels around here.” Malcolm’s eyebrows raised. “Especially when it involves the words ‘prince’ and ‘betrothal’.”

“Do you think so?” She worried her lip. “His Grace is a dear friend, I wouldn’t want him to think poorly of me.”

Malcolm stopped them mid-stride, eyes raised to the heavens.

“Maker...I promised I wouldn’t get involved in all this matchmaking nonsense, as your father but, as I said, I’m not a _complete_ ass.” He smiled and Gemma found herself smiling back. “Nor am I so blind to forget the man fondling my daughter in Orsino’s gardens.”

Gemma covered her face with a hand, burning red at both the memory and her father’s casual mention of it.

“He’s a bit full of himself, and I don’t know about the writing stuff. But he seems to understand you. That’s rare.” He nodded. “And you, sweet daughter, are _blind_ to think that he is anything but fond of you.”

He took her hands, staring into her eyes.

“If you can’t trust me as your father, at least take my advice as the man who wooed your mother away from a life of opulence? Go talk to him.”

“What if he says no?” She whispered, quite suddenly six years old and afraid of the monster under her bed.

He leaned forward to kiss her temple.

“Then you do whatever you want.” He said. “But first, you come home, have supper, hug your mother, and go to bed.”

* * *

She had not planned on following her father’s advice so shortly after it was given. It was her intention to speak with Fenris on the matter, then find opportunity to meet with Varric alone.

Or maybe write a letter and join Bethany on her voyage with Isabela.

Unfortunately, Varric was at Fenris’ estate when she arrived, a deck of cards and drinks laid out between them.

“I wasn’t expecting so much company.” Fenris stood with a pointed cough. “I’ll go get the _nice_ tea set. In the...shed, I think. Excuse me.”

He lay a hand on her shoulder as he passed. She was grateful for the silent show of support.

“Have you come round to say your goodbyes?”

Varric asked this with his back to her, setting the cards to some semblance of order and standing to move their glasses back to the cupboard.

So he had heard. And her, not even having answered his letter.

“Starkhaven has terrible winters, you know? I believe it’s because it sits further inland.” Varric continued speaking, though he did not turn to face her. “There’s not a good library outside of the Chantry’s control and there’s no good liquor anyway. Trust me, I’ve done a thorough examination.”

He wouldn’t look at her and, with each word, Gemma felt her chest constrict.

“I’m...sorry. I should be apologizing and I'm,” Varric gripped the table in front of him and whatever he had planned to say was lost in a slow release of breath.

“You apologized in your letter.” Gemma said, finding her voice around the tightness in her throat. “Is Starkhaven truly so awful?”

“No.” Varric turned and, though his lips were curved up, it was a pale shadow of his usual smile. “But Kirkwall would be a sight worse for not having you in it.”

“I'm not leaving.”

Varric stared at her, brows drawn together in confusion or shock, Gemma wasn’t sure.

“I love you.” Her heart beat faster than she spoke, which was a feat as words spilled from her lips at a gallop. “I’ve wanted you since we met, and I’ve loved you since you witnessed the spectacle of my brother and a serving maid, and saw only two people young and full of hope.”

Varric ducked his head. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying and I'm not leaving.” She said, voice more firm, the thought of what she had just done quickly catching up to her. Her breath caught as Varric took a step toward her. "I'm not leaving and I love you, and if you dont-"

Varric was in front of her in two more steps, her face between his hands. He kissed her soundly and her frantic mood went quite out of her head.

"Thank you,” he said, when he pulled away.

Gemma laughed, feeling lightheaded. “I’m not sure whether I’m being gracious with my confession or my kisses, but I’m happy to provide more of either.”

“Thank you." He laughed with her, and she realised they were both near tears.

 _This is what happens to two people starved of touch._ She thought, ruefully, leaning in to kiss him again. _I'll never allow either of us to be again._

* * *

Bethany was packed surprisingly lightly, Gemma thought, for a sea voyage. But then, she had seen the amount of baubles Isabela had bought for her new beau in the short time between their announcement and the end of the season, so she did not think the purchasing of new items of clothing would be an issue for the Admiral.

Bethany and Isabela both comforted a teary-eyed Leandra, and Malcolm, too, looked ready to cry when he wrapped his arms around his youngest daughter. Carver gave a great sniff and looked down with narrowed gaze, as though daring his own eyes to leak.

Eventually the couple boarded, waving their goodbyes over the railing of the Siren’s Call. The onlookers drifted apart as the ship got smaller in the distance, and Varric and Gemma left her parents to watch it disappear entirely.

“Your brother asked me for advice on how to propose marriage.” Varric said, as they reached Hightown.

“You?” She snorted.

“I’ve some experience, if you recall.” He raised a brow and she inclined her head slightly.

“What did you say?”

“Obviously, ask her parents first.” He scratched his chin. “Then it’s up to you. I say, just ask.”

“Just ask?”

“The wedding will be nice enough.” He explained. “Make your proposal too extravagant and you’ll worry yourself sick.”

Gemma laughed into her hand. “Carver needs no aid worrying himself in her presence.”

“My thoughts precisely.” Varric nodded. “Permission. Preparation. Proposal. Will you marry me?”

“Simple. Elegant.” Gemma nodded. “I like it”

Varric coughed and she turned her head to look at him.

“That could be considered an invitation. Or should I write it on a card?”

Their conversation, and the meaning behind it finally caught up with her. She stared up at the sign of the Hanged Man and smiled wide.

“Yes.” She said.

“Yes?”

“Yes!” Gemma laughed. “What happened to not worrying yourself sick?”

“What’s that saying about doing as I say?” Varric smiled nervously. “How about a drink to commiserate engaging yourself to a hypocrite?”

She leaned down, kissing his brow. “I can’t think of a better reason to celebrate.”


End file.
